


Tales of the Shieldmaiden and the Captain

by ElegantBookworm



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Happy, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28288416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElegantBookworm/pseuds/ElegantBookworm
Summary: My Tolkien Secret Santa gift for @Elfstan. It's a series of drabbles that I think might end up getting fleshed out later :) I've never written Eowyn and Faramir before even though they are my favorite couple- it was so much fun!  Hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Arwen Undómiel, Elboron (Tolkien) & Original Female Character(s), Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	Tales of the Shieldmaiden and the Captain

The Wedding

Though it was early spring, the barest hint of winter’s last chill hung in the air on the morning of the wedding. I wrapped a thick shawl around my shoulders and went to the window, casting the shutters open to watch the sunrise. The larks in the gardens below the High Guest House of Minas Tirith were already at work, singing as the darted from tree to tree, building their nests and searching for food as if they could waste a single minute of the day. My thoughts turned away from the gardens and towards the Steward’s House that stood on the western end of the seventh tier of the city. No doubt Faramir was already up as well, even with my brother having kept him out well into the late watches. At least the wedding would be in the afternoon, giving Eomer more than enough time to sober up. I couldn’t help but smirk at how well deserved the headache he would wake with was. Served him right for trying to see if my betrothed could keep up. Hearing the sound of the maid in the hall, I took the bedroom down from a hook and drew it on before leaving my chamber and heading towards the great hall where breakfast would be waiting. Mellas, the head housemaid, was just finishing laying out the last of the breakfast dishes. She started when she saw me.

“Oh my lady! I didn’t expect to see you here. I was going to bring breakfast up to you.”

I give her a smile. “Someone should be here to see my brother stumble in. Would you make sure there is some fennel tea at his place?”

Mellas curtsied. “Of course my lady. Shall I see that a bath is drawn for you after you’ve eaten?”

“Yes, thank you Mellas.” She curtsies again and leaves as I pour some cream into the bowl of porridge and fruit before me. I’ve just finished and am reaching for a slice of bacon when Eomer stumbles in, wincing even as he clutches one side of his head.

“Good morrow brother.” I say cheerfully, pushing the mug of tea closer towards him as he sits. “I trust you spent the night well?”

He glares at me and takes a long drink from the mug. “Never never never again.” He mumbles but then laughs. “Well, Gondorian though he is, your betrothed proved his mettle against the sons of Eorl.”

It is my turn to glare. “Please tell me he isn’t in the same state as you.”

“Well, uh, I do not think I can say that. My memory gets fuzzy around the time that he and King Aragorn started singing some drinking song in elvish. Or was it dwarvish? Ach.” Eomer scoops strips of bacon and ham onto his plate.

“The king was with you?” I blink, not sure that I’ve heard him right and not sure I like the image coming to mind that my brother’s words have caused.

“Of course. Faramir is his steward.” He sees the look on my face and laughs again. “Don’t worry little sister. I’m sure he knows of some sort of elvish cure for the both of them.”

I pour a glass of small ale and down it in one go before rising. “I need to start getting ready.”

Eomer raises his own ale cup in mock salute and continues eating. Vaná have mercy, what will the queen think? If Aragorn is in half the state that my brother is in, what will she think of us? We have only met thrice, and never have we had occasion to to speak more than pleasantries to each other. The last thing I would want is for her to think that her husband’s ally is a drunkard.

Upon returning to my chambers, I find a steaming bath waiting. Aelswith, my maid from Edoras,

has hung out my gown as well, and she and two other maids help me to bath and dress. The dress itself is a bride-gift from Faramir’s uncle, made of a costly pale silvery-white silk brought in from the south. As I sit before the mirror while Aelswith combs out my hair and weaves it through my mother’s coronet, the realization strikes me a surely as an axe-blow at how much I resemble her and that neither she, nor my father, nor my uncle are here to see this day. I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes and try to hide them, but after I sniff one time too many, Aelswith stops.

“My lady?”

I shake my head. “It’s nothing. Well, no, I- it’s funny that I should miss my mother so fiercely so suddenly.”

Aelswith bends down and hugs my shoulders. “Not at all my lady. And I know for certain fact how happy she’d be at such a match for you, with Prince Faramir nearly tripping over his own feet every time he sees you.”

“Aelswith that was one time!” I laugh at the memory of Faramir coming out to greet Eomer and I upon our arrival in the city a week ago. Her aim achieved, Aelswith grins and resumes arranging my hair.

Shortly after the lightest of lunches I have ever eaten (truly, I think Aelswith feared I would spill crumbs upon my gown) and the maids finish my final preparation, there is the timidest of knocks at the door.

“Eowyn?” Eomer’s voice is hesistant, almost uncertain. “It’s time to go.”

“Alright then.” I call back. “Come in and make sure I look presentable at least.”

The door opens slowly as Aelswith finishes clasping Faramir’s mother’s mantle around my shoulders and I hear my brother choke back a gasp. “Eowyn…”

I can’t help it; I give a little turn. “Well? Will I do?”

As the maids and Aelswith curtsy to him and leave, Eomer steps closer. He is wearing his finest feast clothes, clothes that I made for him for his own coronation. He would have heard the Gondorian ladies gossip about me, how wild I was, how ungentle and incapable of being the wife of the Steward. I find my throat grow tight at the sign of pride in his sister’s domestic abilities he is showing. “Yes, little sister, I think you’ll do.” His voice is thick with emotion, and to my surprise, my big brother actually seems to be on the verge of tears himself. “You look beautiful. Uncle would be proud.”

It’s my turn to try not to shed any tears. “Stop it Eomer! I’ve already cried once; Aelswith will have both our skins if I cry again.”

Eomer takes my arm and entwines it through his. “Well then, let’s get you married before that happens then, eh?” He takes the wedding bouquet from Aelswith once we reach the door and hands it to me. The servants have lined the corridors to see us off. At the great hall, Ethan and the rest of my brother’s house-thanes stand ready. They cheer and clap at our arrival, stamping their boots on the ground in such thunderous uproar that it must surely be heard outside. The door opens ahead of us and we step out into the light.

The ceremony is to take place in the courtyard of the White Tree, before the sapling that Aragorn planted before his coronation last year. Upon emerging from the High Guest House, we find that the path has been lined with flower petals as well as people. A cheer goes up from the crowd as my brother leads me towards the courtyard, our retinue following behind us. We turn a corner and there he is. Faramir stands with his back to me, dressed in silver and black. Aragorn sees us and says something to him, making Faramir turn around. At first I think he looks ashen, but his face lights up with such joy that I nearly start to cry then and there. Eomer and I reach the white sapling and the crowd falls silent. Faramir places his palm over his heart in the manner of Gondor and bows to my brother.

“Welcome Eomer King, Lord of the Riddermark.” He turns to me and bows again, trying and failing spectacularly to hide his smile. “Welcome Eowyn, Lady of the Shield-arm.”

I nod in acknowledgement and then Eomer gives me a final kiss before placing my hand into Faramir’s. The two of us then turn to face the king.

“I call upon Manwe and Varda,” he began in the rituals of Gondor, “witness now the vows of this man and this woman.”

The previous winter had been full of messengers bearing plans for the wedding, for Faramir wanted to honor the customs of Rohan as well as Gondor. To that end, Hold, wife of , who’d I asked to serve as bride-bearer stepped forward as Faramir turned to his uncle Imrahil who stood as his groom-bearer. The Gondorians in the crowd made themselves known by their curious murmuring as Faramir turned and presented me with his sword to hold in safekeeping to give to our eldest son one day. I accepted the sword and handed it to Hold before picking up the bride-sword so that he would not be without a weapon with which to guard our home. I couldn’t help but grin as he beheld it, his eyes going wide in amazement. Though the original blade had been shattered when I’d driven into the Witch King, the hilt of my sword had survived. I’d asked Gimli to reforge it as a wedding present.

Faramir accepted the sword from me in awe. “Thank you Eowyn.” He whispered so that only I could hear him. Louder, for all assembled to hear, he said. “Behold! The blade that struck down the Witch King of Angmar! It shall be an heirloom of the House of Hurin until the end of days, a reminder of the great deeds of the Lady!”

I had not thought to blush, but as the crowd roared its approval, I did. The customs of Rohan done, we turned now to the ceremonies of Gondor. A year ago, when Faramir and I had been hand fasted in Edoras, we had exchanged rings of silver to signify our promise to wed one another. Now though, Prince Imrahil handed Aragorn a pair of gold rings, which he held aloft as he called upon the Valar again to bear witness to our vows. He turned first to Faramir.

“Faramir, son of Denethor of the House of Hurin. Is it your will and want to take this woman as your wedded wife until death parts you and Arda is remade?”

Faramir beamed at me and I beamed back. “It is lord.”

Nodding, Aragorn turned to me. “Eowyn, daughter of Eomund of the House of Eorl. Is it your will and want to take this man as your wedded husband until death parts you and Arda is remade?”

“It is.”

He handed Faramir the gold rings, which we slid onto the third finger of each other’s left hand. Aragorn grinned at us both. “Then I, Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Arnor, with Manwe and Varda as witness and in the name of Eru Iluvatar the One, proclaim you man and wife.” As the crowd became to clap he turned to Faramir, still grinning. “My lord steward, you may kiss your bride.”

Make this place our home

Our departure from Minas Tirith takes much longer than I had anticipated; every man, woman, and child of the city want to see us off and wish us well it seems. Try as we might, by the time Eowyn and I reach the fourth level, there is no help for it but to dismount and make our way on foot, mounting our horses again once we finally reach the gates of the city. Her horse Windfola is flirting with my mare Mithiwen, prancing about until his mistress pulls tighter on the reigns to stop him.

“It seems he desires a race my lord.” She teases. “What say you? First to the river?”

Laughing, I swing myself back into the saddle. “And what shall be my prize when I win?”

Casting a quick glance at the bystanders, Eowyn sticks her tongue out at me and urges Windfola into a gallop. It doesn’t take much encouragement from me for Mithiwen to follow. The day is bright, the air crisp and thick with the scent of blossom on the tree as we make our way across the Pellenor towards Osgiliath. The garrison there sees the banner carried by our men-at-arms and sends up a cheer as Eowyn’s horse reaches the gates first.

“You should know better my lord!” One of the soldiers calls as the men cheer her. “Never ride against the Rohirrim!”

I laugh and move Mithiwen closer to whisper to Eowyn. “What will you take as your prize my lady?”

She smirks. “You will find out tonight my lord. But now it appears we have folk to greet.”

I look up to see Beregond riding forward with a small detachment of the White Guard. “Eowyn, I believe you have meet Beregond, captain of our guard? His son Bergil is to serve as a page in our house.”

Eowyn smiles warmly at Beregond, who bows his head in greeting. “All’s ready captain-my lord.” He amends quickly. Wistfully, I think of how much simpler life was when my only title was captain instead of “prince” and “steward”. By late afternoon, we reach the gate of our house in Emyn Arnen. Eowyn insists on waiting until the horses are cared for before going to the house itself and it fills me with pride to see her approval of the stable. At the door to our home though, I remember an old custom of both our lands and gently lift her off her feet to carry her over the threshold. The next month, what Eowyn tells me is called the “honey-moon” in Rohan, passes quickly as we set up the house and take up the governance of Ithilien properly. Folk are slowly returning to the land here, but it will still be some time before this land is the fairest garden in Gondor again. The soldiers are in awe of Eowyn at first, treating her like a hero from the First Age. It isn’t until a shipment of grain from the Calembel comes in and we discover that the barrels had not been sealed and water had leaked in that they relax around her. I wasn’t sure who was more shocked to hear the litany of curses that streamed from her mouth, the men or the servants. She writes to Eomer immediately, and when a caravan brings grain from Rohan, she is held as a hero by our people. Soon enough, she is a welcome presence on the patrols and the garrisons love her for the care she shows them. The women are a bit more reserved at first, unsure how to handle a noblewoman who acts differently than the Gondorian noblewomen do. I will say this for my wife: she is persistent. The gifts of food to the widows are expected, but it isn’t until Eowyn begins to visit households with a sick child or grandparent that the women of Ithilien truly warm to her. She asks Ioreth to come and the two of them build healer’s outposts in the villages, as well as a small one attached directly to our house. That winter, a packet comes from Meriadoc containing a midwinter gift of seeds from Master Samwise’s garden. She plants them in our private garden and that spring finds us on many an evening enjoying their blooms.

The Wild Shieldmaiden

I am sitting quietly at the table, bored out of my mind and waiting for Faramir to finish his conversation with the lord of Lossarnach. It is my second feast in Gondor since my marriage and I am beginning to think that the familiar raucous merriment of our wedding feast was entirely due to the presence of my own people. Gondorian feasts, it seems, are solemn occasions, even when they are to celebrate the joyous event of the birth of the king’s son. There is a gently pressing on my arm and I turn to see that Lady Tinwerë , wife of the Lord of Lamedon has come to sit next to me.

“Lady Eowyn, you must allow me to compliment you on your attire tonight. That gown is simply marvelous.”

Inwardly, I bristle at her presence, though I keep my face as polite as I can. After the shipment of rotten grain we took in from Calembel last year, I am not kindly disposed to either the lord or lady who would let such a danger pass into the hands of folk who have already suffered much. I give her a polite smile, hoping she will not stay long. “Thank you Lady Tinwerë. That is most kind.”

She doesn’t leave. “Such a joyous day and celebration. I wonder, will we be hearing of such a celebration at Emyn Arnen soon?”

I freeze. Did this woman, who barely knows me, truly just ask me if I pregnant? My court mask must have slipped, as Tinwerë quickly adds “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply anything. These things do take time, and as busy as you have been this last year-“

“Yes, helping our principality to recover from the war. Lamedon was fortunate, was it not, when it came to attacks from the enemy?”

The woman has the grace to look abashed. “Indeed. But now is the time for peace; you should leave more of the running of Ithilien to your husband my lady. He is the prince after all.”

Her emphasis on “he” is impossible to miss and I am at the end of my patience with her. “Indeed? And is that why a shipment of rotten grain from Calembel was delivered to us last autumn? It was your husband oversight?” Though Merethrond is still abuzz with conversation, the rest of our table has gone quiet. I feel Faramir’s hand come to rest lightly on my leg. “When I wish for your opinion on the proper running of our lands, Lady Tinwerë, I will ask.” To show our conversation is ended, I turn my back to her; Gondorian ettiquette holds that as a princess, I outrank her ands must leave.

Faramir waits until she huffs away before speaking. “Shall we take some air, my lady?” His voice is calm as a lake in summer. I nod and take his arm. “I’m impressed at your restraint.” He whispers as we make our way to a side door. “I would have thought you’d have punched her.”

I snort. “Were we not in Aragorn’s own hall, I would have. Please tell me he is going to do something about the grain.”

“He is sending inspectors he picked himself to investigate. Merchants in Lossarnach and the Blackroot Vale have reported receiving the same grain in the past year. It seems Lord Amdohir has kept back the good grain for himself.”

“Were we in Rohan, he would be executed for such. Have you ever seen what rotten grain will do to a man?”

Faramir rubs his hand on my back. “I know my love. Aragorn will see justice done. You know this as well as I.”

Sighing, I sit down on a nearby bench. “If we were in Rohan, Eldarion’s birth would be celebrated much more merrily than this. In all honesty, when the feast was announced, I thought it would be livelier than this.”

“I would think after your brother’s wedding you’d have had your fill.” He replies, chuckling as he sits down next to me.

I smile and roll my eyes at him. “There isn’t even dancing! What kind of celebration doesn’t even have dancing?”

Faramir thinks for a moment before standing and holding out his hand to me. “Well, that is remedied easily enough.”

The Surprise

My frown deepens the more of the report I read. There’s nothing for it; I will have to go in person to inspect the repairs at Cair Andros. I am want to do it though, not with Eowyn as sick as she has been these last weeks. With a start, I realize that her meeting with Ioreth should be done by now and I leave my study to learn of the healer’s report. Sure enough, I pass the old woman as she is about leaving the first hall; she gives me an oddly mirthful smile, but says nothing beyond “My lord steward” before leaving. I take the stairs two at a time in my rush to reach our chambers. Eowyn is sitting up on our bed as Aelswith fixes her some sort of tisane to drink.

“What news did the messenger bring?” Eowyn asks when she sees me, taking the tisane from Aeslwith with a weary acceptance.

“The repairs at Cair Andros are not yet completed. I will need to go myself to see why the captain is unable to keep to a schedule. It can wait though. What did Ioreth say? Did she give you something for your stomach?”

Eowyn nods and casts a look to Aelswith, who curtsies to me and leaves. “But she advised against my going with you to South Ithilien like we planned this autumn.”

I frown. That trip is seven months away. “Why would an upset stomach keep you from going on a trip months from now?”

She snorts. My beautiful, brave, clever wife actually snorts as if the fact that she has hardly been able to keep another down for the past month at least is a joke. “It’s not for the vomiting. Ioreth assured me that will pass in another month. My belly though… well it won’t be impossible to ride in my condition, but it would be extremely uncomfortable at that point.” Eowyn chuckles and then looks at me as though waiting for me to catch up to her joke.

It doesn’t take me long. “Seven months?” I asked, stepping closer to our bed as I silently add the months together to arrive at nine. She grins and pulls me down so that I am sitting next to her and places my hand on her belly. “Truly?”

“Yes my love.”

Joy overwhelms me and all I truly remember is Eowyn laughingly telling me over and over that she isn’t made of glass, she won’t break if I touch her, if I kiss her. We are due in Minas Tirith in a week’s time and it is at a private dinner between us and the king and queen that we announce our news.

Queen Arwen looks to Aragorn and then smiles. “We are so happy for you both. Eldarion will be so excited for a new friend and playmate.”

The prince is barely a year old, so I’m not sure how much “play” he actually does. The queen pulls Eowyn into a discussion of midwives. Aragorn turns to me.

“Have you sent word to Eomer yet?”

I shake my head. “No, though the letter is written and waits for the next courier. Both of us thought he might be a bit, ah, distracted since the wedding. Lothiriel has him wrapped around her little finger.”

Aragorn chuckles. “The king has an heir and now the steward. It is a good omen for Gondor.”

Eomer’s response arrives little more than a fortnight later in the form of a horse and a letter written in my cousin’s hand. As Eowyn takes the yearling in hand, inspecting it even as she murmurs praises to it, I read the letter aloud.

“ _To our sister and brother-in-marriage, greetings!_

 _All of Edoras rejoices at your news and the court of Meduseldd is alight with excitement. Eomer was grinning like an idiot when the courier told us has hasn’t stopped since. Faramir, you know of course how important the role of mother’s brother is in Rohan by now, so please don’t think that this gift says anything about the condition of the stable at Emmyn Arnen. He simply wants his nephew or niece to have the best mount available. Eowyn, you have probably already seen this, but the yearling was sired by Firefoot. We hope to visit you this summer, but until then, all of of love to you_.” I folded the letter up. “I didn’t think my knowledge of horses was that bad.”

Eowyn laughs. “It is tradition. My uncle gave Eomer his first horse as he gave me mine, though he did wait until we could walk to do so.”

“If I remember aright, my uncle gave me my first bow. It was more of a toy really.”

“Ah see, in Rohan it is the father’s task to present the first weapon.” She stops, realizing that we have strayed into an uncomfortable topic. I am still not sure how I feel about my father; it is one thing to give into despair, but to try and kill your own child because of it? It is all too clear how my wife feels about him though. Peregrin Took, the talkative hobbit, told Eowyn about what had happened on the Silent Street and before. It was slightly disconcerting to see her so angry, and I couldn’t help but think father was lucky to have escaped beyond the confines of the world at that moment.

“It is the same here.” I reply, keeping my voice calm, “My father gave me a little practice sword of pine for my fifth birthday, though it was my brother who showed me how to use it. Well, our training master really.”

But that night I find that I cannot sleep; my mind is fixed on the thought of fathers. I turn to see that Eowyn is sleeping soundly beside me before I brush a lock of her golden hair from her face and rise. Lighting a candle from the hearth, I slip from our room and make my way to my study where my wakeful thoughts and I can consider each other without disturbing anyone.

Fatherhood. It is strange, I suppose, that I had not given it much thought until now, but when it seems that the world is about to fall into shadow and death has its hand upon your shoulder, there isn’t much point in indulging in thoughts of the future. My own father…Denethor was a strong man, a hard man, it is true. He was fighting a war and thought it no kindness to shield Boromir or I from that fact. My child though, my child will be born into peace, Iluvatar be praised. But how do I raise a child in peace when all my life I have only known war? How do I make sure not to end up as hard and cold as my father? He did love me, that I know, but I frustrated him as much as he did me. More than anything, I wish there was a father I could go to for counsel, but I realize that there is sadly a dearth in that area. Aragorn’s father died when he was two, his foster-father has sailed into the West, as has Mithrandir. Eowyn’s father is dead as well. I could go to my uncle, but his thoughts towards my father are only a little cooler than my wife’s. I look up as the door creaks open. “Dear heart, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Eowyn walks over to me and wraps her arms around my shoulders, her plait falling next to my cheek. “You didn’t. What is it? You’re wearing you ‘puzzling out a problem’ frown.”

“I was thinking about my father.” I confess. “About fatherhood in general and realizing that I know next to nothing about it.”

Her hand presses against my cheek. “You will be a wonderful father. I’ve seen how you are with the children of the city- Bergil would follow you around like a puppy if you let him. You are patient and gentle. If you treat other’s children with such care, I have no doubt that you will treat your own with such care.” I hear the smile in her voice. “Indeed, both the queen and I predict that you’ll be in danger of spoiling them.”

I can’t help but smile at that. “Well, I suppose we shall have to see.”

Eomer and Lothiriel arrive at Midsummer, with Eowyn managing tp punch to brother’s arm when his eyes widened a. Little too much at the size of her belly. They decide to stay for the birth, which comes, as Aragorn later tells me, on the very day that the Ringbearers Frodo and Bilbo were born. We had come into the city as Ioreth had not felt up to the trip across the river, and so the king of Gondor is there to pat my back in sympathy and the king of Rohan press a cup of small ale into my hand as Eowyn yells out the most vitriolic curse at me in Rohirric.

Eomer raises an eyebrow. “That’s certainly descriptive. She didn’t learn that one from me.”

“She doesn’t mean it.” Aragorn assures me. “I-” he stops and we all look up as Lothiriel sticks her head out from the door.

“Faramir, come! It’s time. She’s asking for you.”

I bolt from my feet and run into the room. Eowyn is braced against the wall, Queen Arwen rubbing her back as she pants. Ioreth pulls at my sleeve. “It’s time for her to push. Help her to the birthing chair.”

“Faramir!” Eowyn reaches out to me, clearly not remembering what she just threatened to do to me, and I take the queen’s place at her side.

“I’m here. Lean on me, I’m here.” I say as I help her down into the birthing chair. There is something strange about this chair, something non-Gondorian. I see the horse heads carved into the arms and look to my cousin. “Is this from Edoras?”

She nods. “The birthing chair of the House of Eorl. Now, get behind Eowyn so she can brace against you.”

It is as if time stands still. Ioreth is at Eoeyn’s knees, calling for her to push as my cousin and the queen cheer her. All I can do is kneel behind my wife as she strains and struggles, sweat beading up and running down her face. Her hands on my arms are like a vice and I wince. I know I was in less pain then this when an enemy’s blade stabbed me. It seems as though it will never end. But then Ioreth calls out that she sees the head, calls for another great push, and my wife brings our son into the world.

“He’s here!” Ioreth calls over the loud wails for protest coming from our son. She dries the baby and then wraps him in a blanket the queen hands her before placing him into Eowyn’s arms. Both of us are crying as we look to each other, her in joy and relief, me in sheer awe that this incredible woman is my wife. I look at my son, with his gray eyes and shock of downy black hair, and know with a sudden clear certainty that I would give my life for this little one, that I desire to give him the world whatever the costs. It doesn’t matter how good or bad of a father I had. In that moment, I vow to be the best father I can be to my son.

Motherhood

The children run ahead of us, shrieking in glee. Little Estelien is trying her best to keep up with her brother and my son, but she is struggling.

“Eldarion, wait for you sister!” Arwen calls. The boys stop, but it is Elboron who walks back to the princess. The queen smiles. “He is a sweet boy, your son.”

I smile as my son takes Estelien’s hand and they run to join Eldarion. “He is, though that comes more from his father than me.”

Arwen mouth lifts into a half-smile. “I wouldn’t say that. The Lady of Ithilien is renowned for her kindness. Even the Haradrim passing through have spoken of your compassion.” Knowing I don’t take well to compliments, she quickly changes the subject and gestures to her daughter and my son, who are now climbing up a tree after her eldest. “They are utterly precious together I think.”

“You know, he still has the bear she sent him when he broke his arm last year.” I hold up my finger to my mouth. “Please don’t say anything, it would embarrass Elboron so.”

The sound of foot steps coming up behind us makes us turn. Aragorn and Faramir walk up to us, the council meeting done. Aragorn takes his wife’s hand and kisses it.

“Well that’s done.” He says and looks around. “Where are the children?”

Smiling, Arwen looks up and then over at the tree, where there is a sudden rustling and stifled giggle. He grins and heads over to the tree. “What’s this? Is there a squirrel nest in my garden?”

Faramir comes next to me and whispers “I take it Elboron is up there as well?”. I nodded and he calls out “Allow me to assist you my lord. Squirrels can be vicious.”

Soon enough both men are carrying their respective children slung over their shoulders, or in the case of Eldarion, tucked under his father’s arm. Estelien is shrieking in laughter, vehemently insisting to her father through her laughter that she is not a squirrel.

“Well my love,” Faramir says, hefting our son on his shoulder. “Shall we take the squirrel home for our supper?”

I ruffle Elboron’s hair. “Mamma!” He protests.

“I think so.” We take our leave of the king and queen and make our way towards the Steward’s House, Faramir setting Elboron down on his own feet just before we reach our courtyard.

Faramir kneels down to look our son in the eye. “Now, shall we go and practice your Quenya?”

Elboron scuffs his boot in the ground. “Alright.” He says, though clearly he would rather do something else. Faramir sees this as well.

“And once we finish, we will read of Beren and King Finrod.”

Beaming, Elboron nods excitedly; he is his father’s son when it comes to history and tales.

The next spring we journey to Edoras to visit my brother and Lothiriel. Though a year younger, my nephew Elfwine and Elboron take to one another as though twins, riding around the crofts of the Kingstead, sparring with each other in Edoras’ practice yards. It is nearing midsummer when Faramir and I take him to Aldburg, my father’s holdings and where he and my mother are buried. It is a beautiful day when we go to visit the barrow, the sun clear and bright. As we approach the graves, Elboron is unusually quiet.

“I was too young to truly know my father,” I explain to my son, “but my uncle Theoden and my cousin Theodred told me how brave and strong he was. My mother I knew a little better. She loved your grandfather dearly.”

“Do you miss them?”

I nod. “Very much. I wished they were there when I married your father, and I wished for them when you were born.”

Elboron is quiet for a moment. “Do you think they would like me?”

“Oh dearest, they would love you. My uncle would have as well.” I grin. “Particularly since you take after me when it comes to your riding ability.”

Elboron grins back; it is a long running jest between Eomer and Faramir about the superior horsemanship of the Rohirrim to Gondor. “Uncle told me that just the other day.”

“What did he tell you?” Faramir calls, having joined us after tying up the horses. Elboron goes to him, leaving me alone at the barrow.

“I wish you could meet them.” I whisper. “I know uncle would have approved of Faramir, which means you would have as well father.” My throat tightens. “And I think I understand now why you couldn’t bear this world without him. But I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have stayed for us mamma, for Eomer and me.” I feel a gentle squeeze on my shoulder. Faramir has come to stand beside me.

“Are you well love?” He asks quietly, brushing a stray tear from my face.

I nod. “I will be.”

Turning from me, Faramir takes something out from his belt much, kneels at the barrow and says something in Sindarin. I glance over his shoulder to see that he has lain a small woven ring of symbelmynë on my parents’ barrow. He rises and sees that I am watching.

“I had my own respects to pay them, for I owe your parents much.” He tucks me under his arm and kisses me. “Let’s catch up with our son.” He tells me after a gentle moment. “Who knows what mischief he’ll uncover otherwise?”

A week later Eomer calls for a hunt, saying that it is high time that his son and mine learned what a proper hunt is. It still dark when I wake Elboron; he meets Eomer and I outside the mead hall, still yawning and rubbing his eyes. Elfwine staggers behind him a minute later, blinking bleary-eyed at the world.

“Is father coming?” Elboron yawns, not seeing that Faramir is coming up behind him with their horses. Rochallor, Faramir’s grey mare, butts Elboron gently.

“Of course.” Faramir hands him the reigns to his horse, Windfoot, before handing me Windfola’s. I patted the familiar warm gray neck of my faithful horse. This summer would be his last trip before being put out to pasture.

“One last hunt old friend?” I ask, getting a soft whicker in response before I swing myself up into the saddle.

We ride out just as the sun breaks, Eomer leading us down a familiar game trail that runs down along the river. When Faramir spots the stag, I head off with Elboron towards a bend in the river where the woods come right up to the banks as he, Eomer, and Elfiwine move to drive the beast towards us. We’ve been hidden in the trees for much longer than it should have taken the others to drive the stag when I hear the horn call that sends a chill down my spine. Orcs.

Elboron looks to me, fearful even as he tries to hide it. “Mama?”

“Stay on Windfoot and stay behind me.” I order, drawing my sword from the saddle scabbard. Elboron nods and draws his hunting dagger.

The woods seem unbearable quiet as we wait. But Windfola’s ears prick forward just before an orc crashes through the trees. From the look of him, the orc has escaped battle. I charge forward, cutting down with my sword as Windfola rears, striking at the orc with his hooves. The orc snarls and lunges, forcing me to pull Windfola back as it tries to yank me down.

“Mother!”

“Stay back!” I shout. There is the briefest opening and I take it, driving the sword into the orc as it launches itself towards my son. A moment later there is a louder crashing as Faramir and Eomer ride to us with a small company.

“Are you all right?” Faramir is breathless, his sword still bloody. I nod and turn to our son.

“Elboron, are you all right?” He nods, though he seems a little shaken at his first experience of death. That night, I go to see him to bed and find that he is still wide awake. I cross the room and sit down on the edge of his little cot. “What’s this? You should be asleep by now love.”

His little shoulders hunch up. “I can’t sleep mamma.” To my astonishment, he cuddles up next to me for the first time in nearly a year, ever since he decided that he was too grown up for such at eight. “I was scared. But you and father weren’t.”

I kiss the top of his head. “Oh my little love, I was very scared. So was your father. But we’ve had practice at doing what you must even when you’re afraid.”

“I don’t think I am very brave. I couldn’t move at all when the orc came, even though I wanted to help you.”

“And that is a good thing, seeing as I told you to stay back.” I remind him. “But even if I hadn’t, I know you would have found your courage.” I smile, seeing an opportunity for a story. Pippin will be bemused to learn of it when next he and Merry come to Gondor. “You know, Master Peregrin thought he wasn’t very brave either.”

This makes Elboron sit up straighter. “Master Peregrin? Really? But father says he’s one of the bravest folk he knows!”

I nod. “Truly. But he told me that it wasn’t until after he and Master Meriadoc had been captured by the uruks that he found his courage.”

Elboron stares at me with his father sober gray eyes. “That was after uncle died, wasn’t it?”

“It was. And there even more proof that you are very brave; you come from a family of high courage.” I kiss his brow and he settles back down. “Now, the uruks ran down into Rohan, even forcing Merry and Pippin to run at times, driving them forward with whips…”

Growing pains

I start as Elboron’s door slams shut; sitting in the window seat of the study reading, Eowyn looks up in alarm and sets her book aside. “Do you want to or shall I?”

Sighing, I gesture for her to stay. “I’ll see what’s wrong.” His door is still shut when I reach his room; opening it slowly, I look in and see Elboron slumped against his bed.

“Do you want to talk about it lad or do you want to be left alone?” I ask, knocking on the door frame. He shrugs and I enter the room. I lower myself down to the floor next to him and wait.

“I was in the practice yard with Eldarion and his sisters. Eldarion and I were sparring when I tripped and fell flat on my face just as the citadel guard walked by. They all laughed.”

I wince in sympathy. This last year has seen him hit a growth spurt that had Merry joke that he must have drank some Ent draught to have grown so much so quickly. Elboron’s taller than his mother now, though thankfully not yet as tall as me, but this sudden height has resulted in a lankiness he hasn’t quite grown accustomedto yet. I remember tripping over my own feet at his age as well; the teasing that ensued, however good natured it was, still stung. “Everyone laughed?”

He shrugs again. “Only the guard. One of them started taunting Bergil about my footwork.”

There it is. Not only was Elboron embarrassed in front of Estelien, his sword master was there as well. Eowyn used to say that Bergil followed me like a pup, and the same can be said for our son and him. “I promise you lad, it will be forgotten by morning.”

Elboron nods, but from the look on his face it is clear that he doubts me. I pat him on the shoulder and get to my feet. “Supper is in half an hour. Go ahead and get cleaned up.”

The next morning we are just finishing up breakfast when the housekeeper announces that Princess Estelien has come and is waiting out in the first hall. Eowyn tells the housekeeper to show her in and a moment later Elboron and I rise as the young girl walks in.”

“Good morning princess.” I say. “What brings you here today?”

She smiles Eowyn and I as I have seen her do with her parents when she has a favor to ask. “My father is going riding out to the North Gate. I came to ask if Elboron could go with us.”

Eowyn struggles to stifle her grin while Elboron looks from her to me pleadingly. I nod and smile. “I think your lessons can wait for the day.”

In his eagerness to leave the room, Elboron trips over his own feet and nearly crashes intosome chairs. He looks back at us and winces an apology before how mother and I wave the children off.

As the years pass, I am reminded more and more of something that Mithrandir once told me: the older one gets, the faster time seems to pass. Five years seem little more than a breathe and the day comes that the king makes Eladarion and Elboron knights of Gondor. Eowyn is beaming with pride as I hand our son the blade she gave to me at our wedding; the solemnity of the occasion might require it, but I am near to bursting with pride myself. A month later, back at our home in Emyn Arnen, we see Elboron off on his first posting. Though friends already, both Aragorn and I thought that the future of Gondor would be better served for Eldarion and Elboron to be comrades as well; to that end, both have been assigned to a ranger company out of Annuminas. Far from home it may be, but it will be good for both young men to get to know the world that the will one day govern. As Elboron rides off that afternoon, Eowyn leans her head onto my shoulder; for the first time, I notice the strands of silver threaded among the gold.

“We’ve done well my love.” She says.

“That we have.” I reply, kissing the top of her head. Time moves on though and our son grows in the esteem of the men in his company and in the king. After his time in Annuminas, Elboron serves in his uncle’s court, riding out with Elfwine to all of the emnets of the Mark.With our son gone though, I find that Estelien becomes a regular visitor of my wife’s. I know that it is Eowyn who spoke to Aragorn about the princess joining us on our summer visit to Edoras. The joy I see on Elboron’s face when he sees her riding into the gates with us is so clear to all that Eomer asks me later if Elboron has asked for her hand yet.

“Not yet.”

He nods. “Hmm, he is posted here for what, another year? I’ll wager you he asks within a year of his next posting.”

“Eomer, I will not wager on my own son.” I say, trying to sound offended and failing at it. “Besides, it will be two years after, not one.”

Eomer grins and holds out his hand to seal the bet. I am a good judge of my son, it turns out. Nearly three years after he is posted back to Gondor, I am waiting outside the throne room with him. Elboron is pacing. Again. It’s all I can do to keep the grin from my face, but my son doesn’t yet see that humor in the situation. When my son had asked for this private audience with the king, I distinctly heard Aragorn mutter “Finally.”

“Calm down.” I tell him once more. “It isn’t as though there are any holy jewels or kingdoms to reclaim. At worst, he’ll send you to one of the frontier companies.” The jest is lost on him and Elboron gives me a scowl so reminiscent of Boromir that my heart twists for a moment. The door to the thrones room opens and Eldarion steps out, his face unreadable. I shake my head; if his sister finds out about this, I pity the prince.

“The king will see you now.”

I pat Elboron on the shoulder. “You’re the captain of the Ithilien Rangers and have seen battle. You’ll be fine.” He nods and we follow Eldarion in; the prince slows so that he walks beside me.

“Thank Eru he is finally asking. The two of them have been unbearable this last month.” He whispers, the tiniest trace of a grin crossing his face.

We reach the throne and bow, with Elboron going to one knee before rising. Eowyn will be amused to hear of his formality when this is over.

“Elboron, son of Faramir.” Aragorn intones. “You asked for a private audience with me. What is your request?”

Elboron squares his shoulders back. “My lord, I have come this day to ask you for the hand of the princess Estelien.”

Aragorn’s mouth twitches. “Just her hand? A gruesome request captain.” As Elboron looks at me in confused horror, Aragorn bursts into laughter and rises from the throne. He claps Elboron on the shoulder. “I jest with you lad. Yes. Yes, you have my blessing to ask her.”

As a grinning Eldarion comes forward to congratulate my now relief-laughing son, the king comes over to me and hands me the three gold coins of our wager.

“I confess, I had considered sending him on a mission that would keep him gone one week.”

Chuckling, I slip the coins into my belt purse. “But my lord, that would be cheating. I said he’d ask a week before the new year, you a week after.”

A Wedding Once Again

“He looks as nervous as I was.” Faramir whispers as we watch Elboron wait for the arrival of his bride.

“Really?” I whisper back. “I couldn’t tell you were.”

Before Faramir can reply, trumpets announce the approach of the bride. With Aragorn officiating, it falls to Eldarion to escort his sister, with the three younger girls leading them forward by scattering flower petals in their sister’s path. Estelien is beaming as she walks; I turn and am lucky enough to catch sight of Elboron’s face when he first sees her. Just like his father had, tears have filled his eyes. Eldarion places his sister’s hand in Elboron and then says something that makes both of them grin. The ceremony is more Gondorian than his parent’s, but Estelien throws a smile to me just before one of her sisters brings forward a slender curved sword. I look over to queen Arwen, who smiles back at me.

“Is that?” I whisper to Faramir, who nods, clearly awestruck.

“Hadhafang. Once the sword of Idril Celebrindal of Gondolin.”

Just as we did more than thirty years ago, the bride and groom exchange swords. When it comes time for the vows, even Aragorn eyes are glistening. The vows are said, the marriage proclaimed and sealed with a kiss to the thunderous roar of the crowd when the city bells begin to peal. Having turned the Steward’s House over the the newlyweds for this night, we guest with the king and queen. As we lie in bed that night, Faramir turns to me.

“I never would have thought my life would be such.” He says, stroking my hair, which is now more silver than gold. I run my hands through his own graying hair.

“Nor I.” We kiss and I settle into his arms as we drift off to sleep together.


End file.
